


Not Today (But Maybe Tomorrow)

by CeliaEquus



Series: 'Sherlock' Poetry `Verse [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: First Kiss, Gen, Getting Together, More pairings to come as chapters are posted, Motherly Mrs. Hudson, Poetry, Post-Reichenbach, Sequel, Sherstrade
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-10-03
Updated: 2013-11-03
Packaged: 2017-12-28 07:17:26
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,330
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/989259
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CeliaEquus/pseuds/CeliaEquus
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sequel to 'You Are My Poetry'.</p>
<p>Sherlock comes back in a most spectacular fashion, only to face anger from John.  Feeling disheartened, Sherlock sends a plea to whomever may respond.  Who does, however, is up to the reader.</p>
<p>Disclaimer: I don't own 'Sherlock', nor am I making any money from this.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Not Today (But Maybe Tomorrow)

"It won't make any difference, mate," Moran said, grinning at Greg Lestrade. "I've got something you'll be wanting back."

He backed up, pistol still trained on Lestrade, and whipped a dust sheet off the couch, revealing Molly Hooper. John Watson's breath caught in his throat. She was unconscious, and her hands were bound tightly; but she otherwise looked unharmed.

Ever since Sherlock's death, and subsequent clearing of his name, John, Lestrade, Sally Donovan, and many others had been trying to locate every last one of Moriarty's associates. They were determined to break down his web-like network, and negotiated the labyrinthine puzzles as best they could without Sherlock to provide guidance. It was incredible, in a way; between them, they recalled enough of his methods to find the main players. Most had disappeared somehow; they had no doubt been alerted. Sebastian Moran was the last of them, the most dangerous; and yet he had summoned them to this warehouse. It reminded John – vaguely – of the first time that he met Mycroft Holmes.

"You want your girl back safe and sound," Moran continued. "You see, if you take me in, someone else'll replace me."

"You don't have Moriarty's protection anymore," John said.

"It'll take you at least thirty seconds to put the cuffs on me, even if you shoot," Moran said. "But it'll only take two seconds to put a bullet through her head." He stepped closer to the couch. "Her life doesn't make any difference. Know what I'm thinking?" Another step. "I'm thinking you wouldn't hold up your end of the bargain. If you let me go just to save her, someone's still gonna be hounding my steps. So I'm thinking I'll kill her anyway."

"Not today."

The lighting was terrible. From somewhere up on the metal walkway running around below the windows near the ceiling, somewhere up in that echoing space, had nonetheless come a deep, familiar voice.

The next two minutes were a whirl of movement. A man came flying through the air towards Moran, Tarzan-style, and knocked him to the ground. From there, it was fisticuffs, the long chain swinging uselessly near Molly. The claps and grunts of punches hitting flesh filled the room. John, Lestrade, Sally, and the other police officers were cut off from Molly by the fight. The tan and khaki of Moran's casual clothes was a visual contrast to the blur of a long black coat.

A well-placed ankle behind a knee, and a hit to the face with the butt of a gun, and Moran was on the floor. His attacker rolled him over, and John realised that they were near the couch. A dark-sleeved hand extended itself to Molly, and the doctor noticed that she was awake. She accepted the knife and sawed at her bonds, while Moran put up a brief, token struggle.

"Handcuffs," Sherlock Bloody Holmes said, restraining Moran. Trapping both wrists in one of his hands, Sherlock held out the other and scowled back at the party. "Donovan, handcuffs. Now!"

No insults, not rapid-fire deductions; he must have mellowed. Sally seemed to be so stunned – they all were – that she walked forward and placed her cuffs in Sherlock's outreached hand without comment. He clapped them on Moran.

"You were right, Sherlock," Molly said, rubbing her chafed wrists. "The antidote, the time to use it, where he brought me."

"Of course I was right," he said, untying the ropes still around her ankles. "You make a very effective kidnap victim, Molly. If you ever get tired of studying corpses, you could make a living out of being bait."

"That was actually flattering, coming from you."

"Hmm." He stood up, and offered her a hand. Molly shook her head, now massaging her ankles. "I apologise that our first contact in so many months led to such… uncomfortable circumstances. However, it was necessary."

She met John's eyes. "I'm not the only one in this place who's going through that."

John observed the way Sherlock's shoulders stiffened. The detective spun around on his heel, and the rapid movements of his eyes made it obvious that he was scanning each of them. His lips parted. John spoke first.

"You. Outside. Now," he said, pointing at the front door. Sherlock hesitated; he must have seen how serious John was, and acknowledged the wisdom in this by making his way to the door. John strode after him. They were barely over the threshold when Sherlock turned around.

\--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

A fist connected with his face. There was a short explosion of pain – Sherlock had, admittedly, felt worse – before another in nearly the same spot, from a different angle. John was using both hands.

Before he could land another punch, Sherlock grabbed his wrists, and pulled him down onto level ground.

"Stop that," he said mildly, and he let go. That was a mistake.

"You _bastard_!" John shouted. This time he hit Sherlock's cheek. Not hard enough to do much damage; no doubt the good doctor was still in some amount of shock. "You stupid, unutterable bastard!"

"Mycroft can attest to the fact that I am not illegitimate—"

"Shut up!" John was breathing heavily. For the sake of his health, Sherlock complied. "I… you… Where the hell have you been? It's been nearly two years!"

"It would have been three if neither mobile phones nor the internet existed."

John fumed. "Do you have _any_ idea what it's been like?"

"I missed you, too—"

"You knew I was alive, you knew we were _all_ alive. We thought you were dead!"

"You would have been if I had not acted as I did!" Sherlock tried to rein in his temper, but it was no good. He had anticipated a punch, a swear word or two. He had not, however, anticipated the look of utter hatred on John's face. It forced him to take a step back. "If I hadn't jumped, you would have died! You, Mrs. Hudson, Lestrade. He had snipers trained on all three of you. Don't you understand? If you three… he killed himself so the order couldn't be redacted… without you… I didn't have a choice!"

He ran his fingers through his hair, tugged at it as he paced back and forth. Forming coherent sentences had never been this hard. "Damn it, he knew. Somehow, he knew. If I hadn't jumped, my friends would have died. Without Mrs. Hudson to play mother, without Lestrade to have faith in my abilities, without you to… to be you," he gestured at John, "I would have had nothing."

John visibly swallowed, but his expression remained unchanged. "What about the Work?"

"The Work wouldn't matter!" The echoing words were truer than he had known; he only realised that as he spoke them. "Not without anyone to share it with. I can only thank some higher power that he didn't realise that I consider Molly a friend as well, or else we never could have pulled this off, and I probably would be dead."

"Then at least we'd have had reason to mourn," John said, the words almost incomprehensible between clenched teeth. Sherlock tried to ignore the feeling of being stabbed in the gut.

"You'd prefer that?" he asked quietly. "You would prefer that to be reality, rather than a lie which lasted less than twenty-four months? You think so little of me, of our friendship?" When there was no answer, Sherlock half-turned away. "I see."

"No, you don't see, you great git," John said. Sherlock observed him approaching through his peripheral vision. "It's… I'm sorry. I didn't mean what I said. I asked for a miracle and," he laughed shakily, "someone delivered on that."

"I could have lived a new life, you know," Sherlock said. "Gone somewhere, used my talents under a different name, and pretend that Sherlock Holmes was no more. Never be called a 'Freak' again." He sighed, continuing to stare ahead. "I chose to return. It may sound selfish, but I wished to see the three most important people in my life – not including Molly. Lestrade. Mrs. Hudson." He turned back. "And you. John."

There was a minute where he nothing happened at all, and Sherlock feared that he had made another slight miscalculation. This fear increased as John still refused to speak.

"You did not find the poem left at my grave?" he asked eventually.

"The one which still could have been forged?" John said, scowling. "The one which prompted more questions than answers?"

"It was foolhardy of me, but Mycroft assured me that it had not fallen into the wrong hands."

"Then why did you leave it?"

"I don't know!" Sherlock clutched his hair, frustrated nearly beyond words. "John, I… I had seen you, all of you, at my funeral. Mycroft told me that you were… unhappy."

"To say the least," John muttered.

"I wished to alleviate some of that pain," Sherlock said. "Even if you believed that I was dead, and that it was something I had written before jumping, I had hoped it would provide succour. It appears that I was incorrect in this regard." He drew himself up, erecting the strongest walls that he could. He had anticipated a somewhat violent reaction on John's part; however, some happiness would not have gone amiss. Apparently, he was doubly mistaken.

John continued to shake his head, and turned away. Sherlock could heard his name being called from the warehouse door, but he didn't care to see anyone else. If John – his best and closest friend – rejected him, what hope did he have with Lestrade or any of the others? They didn't even like him. John had at least appeared to tolerate him.

With a sigh, Sherlock strode away, his footsteps ever quickening, until he was running towards the nearest main road. There, he summoned a cab, and returned to the Diogenes.

Sherlock was aware that they had found his poems, and no doubt read them. What a laugh they must have had. The Freak being capable of love, and constantly being rejected somehow or other. If it wasn't derision, it would be pity. Neither emotion was preferable to the other.

\--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

A few days later, the people of London could find a poem in the classifieds in any newspaper they opened. It was expensive to have such a long ad placed; but it would signify something to the people who read it, and divined its meaning.

'To those whom I have hurt:

_The life that I have is all that I have,_

_And the life that I have is yours._

_The love that I have for the life that I have_

_Is yours and yours and yours._

_A sleep I shall have, a rest I shall have,_

_And death will be but a pause,_

_For the peace of the years in the long green grass_

_Will be yours and yours and yours._

Regards, SH.' And then the phone number for Angelo's.

Sherlock hoped that someone out there would respond. The aim was to see if anyone cared. If they did, they would come. The people he was trying to reach… he knew that each of them read the newspaper the whole way through. He had dropped out of contact with everyone for the past three days, with Mycroft's assistance.

If they cared – and if they forgave – they would come.

Keeping to himself in the corner, Sherlock watched the door, waiting. He had given no specific time; however, Angelo – delighted that his favourite detective was still alive – was more than happy to let Sherlock sit there all day. He never stirred from his spot. While he doubted that anyone would seek him out, he was determined not to miss any potential visitor.

He was torn. The way he felt, anyone would be welcome, and welcomed with open arms, and an open heart. This time, Sherlock would not conceal his feelings. He would not mess things up, if only he could have one chance. A second chance.

For he could never forget the names that he wrote on each envelope. Anyone… anyone…


	2. Ending 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wherein Sherlock is subjected to Mrs. Hudson's gossip, and Lestrade shows up.

The next time someone entered the restaurant, Sherlock looked up from his table, not expecting it to be anyone he knew. By this time, he expected very little at all to come of his notice in the paper. It was far from obscure; even the densest of his acquaintances could comprehend its meaning.

He was pleasantly surprised when he recognised Mrs. Hudson, in all her short, curly-haired, bustling glory. She hurried over to his table, her purple skirt fluttering around her legs as she moved, and he stood up to kiss her cheek.

“Oh, Sherlock dear,” she said, and he ushered her into the opposite chair. “I had a phone call on the way out, or I would have been here sooner.” She grabbed his hand, and squeezed. “How are you?”

“Much better for your presence, Mrs. Hudson,” he said, and he smiled. “Thank you for coming.”

“I wanted to make sure that you weren’t alone,” she said. “Have you ordered something yet?”

“A candle for you, Mr. Holmes?” Angelo said, choosing that moment to appear. “For you and your date, huh?”

“What a sweet boy,” Mrs. Hudson said. She looked like she wanted to start mothering Angelo as well, and Sherlock felt the need to put a stop to this.

“She is my landlady, Angelo,” he said. “Presuming that I may return to Baker Street?”

“Yes, of course,” Mrs. Hudson said. “Angelo, is it? You must come around for tea sometime. Could we have a bottle of red? You like red, don’t you, Sherlock?”

“It sounds perfectly satisfactory.”

“One bottle of our best red wine, coming up,” Angelo said, leaving the candle, and he swept away. Sherlock shook his head as he looked at Mrs. Hudson.

“Have you learnt nothing of stranger danger?” he asked.

“He’s a friend of yours—”

“Acquaintance.”

“So he must be all right.”

“…Aside from the criminal record. Well, I suppose it was only robbery.” Mrs. Hudson began to look alarmed. “I can be there for tea, should he choose to visit.”

Angelo soon returned with the wine, and by the time they were halfway through their first glass each, Sherlock and Mrs. Hudson were gossiping like old times. Or, to be more accurate, Mrs. Hudson was updating Sherlock on Mrs. Turner and her ‘married ones’, and spilling secrets about the people Mycroft had had staying at 221B Baker Street while Sherlock was dismantling Moriarty’s network. He made note of several points, intending to retain them for future use. Leverage with Mycroft, should the need arise.

“So where did you go, dear?” Mrs. Hudson asked as she was pouring a second glass of wine. Sherlock shook his head, still going on his first.

“Predominantly Europe,” he said, “with a few sojourns to the Middle East.”

“Oh dear! I hope you steered clear of trouble as much as possible.”

He smiled, and twisted his glass around. “I did my best.”

“And you really did all of this, just for us?”

When Sherlock looked up, he saw the tears in Mrs. Hudson’s eyes. The tremor in her voice was audible. It hurt something inside.

“Three people’s lives against one,” he said. “It was not a difficult decision to make, Mrs. Hudson. And I had the advantage of forward planning. Moriarty fell into the trap of my own devising, for which I will be eternally grateful to Molly Hooper.”

“She’s a nice young girl,” Mrs. Hudson said.

“I hope she finds someone worthy of her devotion. I have not treated her well over the years, although it has taken me some time to recognise this. A shamefully long time. She has become a friend, however. Friendship is a far stronger relationship than that of a romantic attachment, in my experience.”

Mrs. Hudson leaned closer, and patted Sherlock’s arm.

“You’re just like a son to me,” she said. “You and John both. I wish you’d find someone nice to settle down with.”

“You just wish to top Mrs. Turner’s married ones.”

“That’s not true, Sherlock,” she admonished, and she tapped his hand sharply, before taking a large sip of her wine. “Well, not _entirely_ true.”

“Ah-ha.”

“`Tisn’t.” She looked off to the side as she drank some more, and Sherlock drained the rest of his glass. He was contemplating another when Mrs. Hudson stood up.

“You’re leaving?” Sherlock asked, reaching for her arm.

“You won’t be alone, Sherlock,” she said. She stroked his hair. “Move back into Baker Street as soon as your brother calls off his last watchdog, won’t you?”

“Of course,” he said, nodding, and he watched as she headed to the door. His attention left her immediately when he noticed who had come in, and obviously caught her eye.  
It was Greg. He was staring at Sherlock, until Mrs. Hudson reached him. Then he quickly opened the door for her. She gestured at Sherlock, and mouthed what appeared to be the words ‘Don’t forget to use protection’, before disappearing. Mortified, and hoping that he was mistaken, or that the inspector hadn’t heard, or didn’t know how to read lips, Sherlock rubbed his eyes for a moment. Then he looked up, and saw Greg slowly moving around tables until he reached Sherlock.

“Hello, sunshine,” Greg said. Sherlock stood with a clatter of his chair.

“Good evening, inspector,” he said. He noticed many things, as usual; what stood out in that moment, however, was the way Greg’s eyes lost some of their shine. He waved the man into the chair Mrs. Hudson had just vacated, and summoned Angelo to bring another wine flute.

“Thought there’d be more people than this,” Greg said, no longer making eye contact as he cast his gaze around the restaurant. Sherlock had already made an inventory of the patrons – he had required some mental stimulus while he awaited any visitors – and so he was free to study the inspector further.

“You’re divorced,” he said. Greg’s eyes met his. “Inevitable. But you left her, not the other way around, which leads me to believe that she wasn’t enticed away by the PE teacher. The affair obviously contributed to your decision, but it is not one that you regret. This was at least a year ago, possible eighteen months. You are comfortable in your bachelorhood, and there is no longer a line from the wedding ring. Proceedings must have moved swiftly; you could not have kept an impending divorce from me, and there were no signs of it when last we met before… before I went away.”

“Yeah,” Greg said. “Before you abandoned us.”

“Before I protected you,” Sherlock snapped. He regretted it at once. “I apologise. It has been trying for me, not being able to see you except through the odd grainy photograph care of Mycroft’s CCTV. I am glad you were able to retain your job.”

Greg sighed. “Well, tell me your new number, and I’ll call the next time we’re out of our depths with a case.”

“You can use the old number.”

He stared at Sherlock. “Wait, wait, wait. We could’ve called you anytime, just using your old phone number?”

“Mycroft had my calls redirected until he was able to regain my SIM card. Before anyone could begin tracing our communications, I purchased a new phone. However, I have returned to using my old card. Greg, who would call a dead man?”

He turned pale. Then he paused, and stared at Sherlock. “You called me Greg.”

“It is your name, I believe.”

“All of my warrant cards you’ve stolen over the years, and you never noticed.”

“Lestrade is a far less common name than Greg. You are, in fact, the only Lestrade of my acquaintance. By a strange circumstance, I have known several Watsons, but only one John.”

“Right.”

Sherlock poured wine for both of them, and they drank in silence, one always looking away as soon as the other noticed. Sherlock had rarely been in a more ridiculous and uncomfortable situation. Something was stirring inside him, however, and he waited for Greg to speak again. When it appeared that he was content to wait it out as well, Sherlock broke the silence.

“What did cause the divorce?” he asked. “Was it solely due to your ex-wife’s affair? Or was there someone else? Did it not work out between you?”

“No. No, it’d never worked out before.”

“Then you have hope for the future?” Sherlock said. Greg shrugged half-heartedly.

“Not really,” he said. “I mean, it’s all very well to say there’s always hope, but…” He trailed off, looked at Sherlock, and then away again. “No, I don’t hold out any hope.”

“The woman’s name?”

Greg winced. “Not a woman.”

“…Oh?” Sherlock knew that he’d fallen for the inspector long ago, and bid that crush goodbye when the reality of the man’s marriage had hit Sherlock in the face.

“Look, Sherlock, I’m sure you could figure it out,” Greg said, and he shifted in his seat, still refusing to make full-on eye contact.

“Of course,” Sherlock said. He stood up, and began to walk around. Greg moved back in his chair.

“What’re you doing?”

“I need to reassess your appearance if I am to deduce the identity of the one you desire. When did you last see him?”

“Uh, recently.”

“Have you had much contact?”

“No. It all started a long time ago, and it never went anywhere. I… I never made a move.”

“Hmm.” Sherlock was attempting to pick something up from the inspector’s clothes. Had it been a long time between meetings, that would justify a certain level of difficulty; this was ludicrous. He hated the idea of asking the inspector to stand up and turn around to give Sherlock a better look, as that would be admitting a problem. It would possibly be admitting more than one problem, and he had no desire to dwell on that.

“Well?” Greg asked. Sherlock glanced at his face, and saw that Greg was smirking, his eyebrows raised. One was slightly higher than the other, and his head was tilted. With his shirt undone at the top two buttons, his jacket open, and legs spread out in front, the detective inspector’s entire appearance was more than pleasing, and did something to Sherlock’s insides. And outside, forcing him to retreat behind the table once more.

“It cannot be someone from Scotland Yard, as you are far too professional to fall for someone related to your work—”

“Not _that_ professional,” Greg said. Sherlock hesitated, and considered his words. If Greg had fallen for someone at the Yard, that would explain why the divorce happened so long ago; it would have had plenty of time to build. Something obviously occurred after Sherlock’s death to give Greg hope for a new future. Had he fallen for someone he met during the inquiry which had taken place after Sherlock’s perceived suicide? Mycroft had refused to divulge details of the investigation, which was irritating at the time; even more so now. Then Sherlock could have gained a better idea of his riva— Greg’s preferred lover.

“What is stopping you?” he asked. “Relationships within the police force are as common as relationships between doctors.”

“It’s a little matter of unrequited feelings. He wouldn’t want me.”

“How can you be sure? Have you asked?”

“No—”

“He would have to be an idiot to refuse your suit,” Sherlock said, unthinkingly. He only had moments in which to deflect. “Although if you do have your eye on someone at work, process of elimination suggests that they must be an idiot.”

“Process of elimination?” Greg appeared to be bemused.

“Unless you are a narcissist.”

“…Right. Thank you, I think.”

“You are welcome.”

Sherlock dodged the proverbial bullet there. Greg hadn’t noticed his blunder, thank God.

They drank some more, and eventually ordered plain bread rolls. Greg watched Sherlock freely now, while Sherlock grew frustrated. He maintained a careful façade of nonchalance, all the while wondering why it was proving so onerous to deduce this mystery person’s identity.

“Oh, for God’s sake,” Greg said. “I came here to talk to you, but you’re distracted again. I don’t know why I bothered.” He stood up, and Sherlock grabbed his wrist.

“You’re not leaving?” he asked.

“If we’re not going to talk—”

“We can,” Sherlock said, and he pulled Greg closer. “You can tell me all about… whomever it is. I must confess to some difficulty in identifying him.”

Greg’s face fell. “Can’t you tell?”

“No, I—”

Then his words were cut off as Greg bent down and kissed him. It was chaste and unhurried, but Sherlock was too shocked to lean into it. He was utterly lost. But he didn’t relinquish his grip, not even when the kiss ended and Greg tried to pull away. Sherlock twisted his hand around until he could take Greg’s pulse. It was racing, too fast even for him to calculate the inspector’s blood pressure; but it was surely sky high. His pupils were no more dilated than before, and yet he was blushing. Sherlock stood as well.

“Say it,” he said. “Say it, Greg.”

“You, Sherlock. God, how could you not have known? That night we went to the pub, I was sure…”

“You were married.”

“Past tense.”

Their eyes met again.

“You thought I was dead,” Sherlock said.

“I was sick of living a lie.”

Sherlock glanced over at Angelo. At least there was no need to pay for food here. The restaurant’s owner waved him away.

“Will you walk me home?” Sherlock asked.

“Baker Street isn’t that far,” Greg said.

“I am not currently lodging at Baker Street, although I hope to be soon.”

“I brought my car.”

“…I see.”

Greg shifted his hand until their fingers were entwined. Sherlock felt his own heart-rate pick up the pace.

“I’ll take you anywhere you want to go,” Greg told him. “If you’re lucky, you might even get a goodnight kiss.”

“That sounds acceptable.”

“Git.”

“And yet you love me.”

“I do, God help me.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In this chapter, we had platonic Sherlock/Mrs. Hudson, as requested by: Imogenfere, Syblime, Little.Bookworm.Elizabeth, Valkyrie of the Dead, and an anonymous.  
> We also had Sherstrade (a personal favourite of mine), as requested by: Slithytove, Little.Bookworm.Elizabeth, Valkyrie of the Dead, and Cleome.  
> There will be three more chapters, where I have tried to combine as many requests as possible. In other words, all of them, in some way or another. I do try to please. *Grins*

**Author's Note:**

> It's up to you now, readers! I know there were a lot of people in favour of Johnlock; however, if you have any other preferences out of the people in 'You Are My Poetry', you have a week to cast your vote. The possible people are:
> 
> Mrs. Hudson
> 
> Anthea
> 
> Lestrade
> 
> Sally
> 
> Molly
> 
> Irene
> 
> John
> 
> Or if you'd rather not have it end on a romantic note, or if you prefer Sherlock to be with more than one person, also let me know in a review. The most popular request will be written. (And probably the other requests as well, because this is me.)
> 
> The poem was a code for Violette Szabo, a member of the French Resistance. It was written by Leo Marks, and featured in the film 'Carve Her Name With Pride'.


End file.
